


No Signs Of Pain

by anthrophobe



Category: Farscape
Genre: Chronic Pain, F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Stone Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthrophobe/pseuds/anthrophobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius hurts. Braca provides distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Signs Of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> For the [un_love_you](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/) prompt table. The prompt was: This cancels out the hurt.
> 
> I took it literally.

Your earliest memory is one of pain; deep somatic pain, radiating through every muscle and bone in your body, drilling into the soft tissue of your brain. In layman’s terms, you were born with a fire behind your eyes, beating against the inside of your skull, burning through your veins. It was eight years before you taught yourself to hear over the roaring of your own body and the Scarrans bothered sending Tauza to break you of your Sebastian weakness. It was many torturous lessons after that you garnered the ability to distinguish words in her harsh tongue through the heat delirium.

Then beautiful, duplicitous Natira took you in, providing you the credits to implant the complex cooling system you had devised. When the Diagnosan laid you out bare on his table, you were shuddering with anticipation. 

Under the thick armor of your cooling suit, the Solanterum rods hold the fire at bay. The pain is dulled beneath the soothing chill of a fresh rods, but not eliminated. It rises in slow waves, creeping back to the piercing burn of critical levels, while you steal yourself against it, holding out for the longest possible duration, until the heat is too much and you must let your attendant stand by and observe the grinding ache as your head opens up.

It is always there. Under the strictly disciplined shell you present, under the science and the schemes, you can never quiet that heat.

But the first time you pin a naked Lieutenant Braca to the bed beneath you, the incessant grey noise begins to fade. When you lean down to teeth ever so cautiously at his lower lip, cool, numb silence washes over you. He moans, high and pleading, and you swallow it down. You pull back to watch his face as you tease a gloved hand along the inside of his left thigh, and your proprioception falls away completely for the duration of his soft, hissing gasp.

It becomes an experiment: testing Braca’s limits, testing your own body’s responses. It is hardly academic. The results are subjective, and you aren’t recording them, beyond committing them to your remarkably precise memory, but it is easily the most satisfying experiment you have ever conducted.

As your draw him closer and closer to orgasm, following him all the way yourself, all sensation in your body dwindles to the solitary fixed point of the man underneath you: his thighs shuddering and twitching under your palms, his cock pulsing against your tongue, his lips stretching taut as he cries out.

You swallow everything he gives and your own pleasure coalesces into a blinding flare behind your eyes and thrusts the cooling apparatus from your skull. As the rush of cold air hits exposed nerves and Braca scrambles to replace the spent rod, you hardly feel a thing.


End file.
